


(It Does No Good To) Talk About Anything

by likelike_love



Category: In Plain Sight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-19
Updated: 2012-08-19
Packaged: 2017-11-12 11:50:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likelike_love/pseuds/likelike_love
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 4 (though in this reality, Mary is not pregnant).  It all comes to a head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(It Does No Good To) Talk About Anything

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the second annual Month of Mayhem on mary_marshall.livejournal.com. It definitely fluctuates in tone from angst to comedic to other things. Also, I suppose I should note that the inspiration for the original idea for this story (which you can kind of still see in there ... if you tilt your head and squint) came from the song [Shroud](http://vimeo.com/8960217) by Nathaniel Rateliff. Also, as usual, big thanks to papillongirl and pipisafoat for giving it the once (or twice) over on very short notice!
> 
> [Originally posted](http://mary-marshall.livejournal.com/586391.html) on mary_marshall.livejournal.com on July 23, 2011.

“Honey?” 

“Yeah, babe?” Marshall called back from his position in front of the stove. His bare feet tapped to the rhythm of the AfroCuban jazz music from the radio. He lifted the lid off the terracotta tajine, inhaling the aroma of lamb expertly spiced with ginger and tumeric that greeted him.

Distracted by the intricate meal preparations, he did not notice that five minutes had gone by since she had called to him. He replaced the lid and padded through the living room to search for her. 

Marshall paused briefly in the doorway of the dining room-cum-art studio to admire her latest painting. He smiled as he recognized the shady dirt path of the landscape as one from his parent’s Texas ranch. They had gone riding one afternoon on a recent visit home to introduce her to his parents.

It had been whirlwind courtship. Or so his coworkers insisted. But he maintained that by 42, a man should know what he wants and go out and get it. There was no point in dawdling. He had wasted too much time already.

He turned to continue his search wandering past the guest bathroom, festooned with brassieres hanging from every conceivable surface to air dry. Sunday was laundry day.

Each night of the week had a purpose to Abby. Monday was Italian Club. Tuesday was target practice. Wednesday was homemade pasta night. Thursday evenings were spent talking with her sisters on the phone. Friday was date night. Every Saturday since relocating to Albuquerque from Dallas three years ago, Abigail had explored a different New Mexico attraction: scenic byways, state and national parks, obscure museums, and cultural events. And Marshall had settled quite easily into her comfortable routine.

He finally found her in the master bedroom. Formerly a masculine retreat with rough hewn knotty pine furniture and chocolate brown bedding, the room was now filled with Abby’s feminine touches -- the hand sewn quilt in shades of pink and yellow at the foot of the bed, the romantic swag curtain draped over the french doors that opened onto the patio, and the woman herself.

Abby was perched on the edge of the bed beside two collapsible hampers, one filled with white clothes, the other with colors. Her eyes were open, but she remained unmoving. To Marshall, she appeared lost in thought.

He leaned in the door frame, smiling at the sweetness of this domestic scene. “Babe?”

At the sound of his voice, Abby shook her head as if to clear it. Her pert auburn ponytail swept side to side across her back.

“Hey. Where’d you go?” There was a smile in his voice.

“Maybe I should ask you that.” She raised her eyes to meet his.

“What, babe?”

“What is this, _babe_?” She raised her right hand, a scrap of black lace dangling from her index finger.

Marshall’s brow furrowed. “Uhhhhh … I don’t know, Abby. What is it?” He sensed a trap, but in for a penny, in for a pound. “Your panties? Did I run them with my gym clothes again? I--”

“They’re not mine, Marshall.”

“Well, I can assure you they aren’t _mine_ , babe.” He stepped further into the room.

“Why would I-?” She huffed a breath and rolled her eyes skyward. “I found them in your overnight bag.” She gestured at the black duffle at her feet.

“Oh. Then they must be Mary’s.” 

The kitchen timer sounded and Marshall turned to the door. "That would be my famous Moroccan stew. Care to join me, mademoiselle?" When she didn't reply, he turned his head to face her again.

Abigail was staring at him, mouth slack. After a moment she shook her head as if to clear it and said, "They must be Mary's? They must be _Mary's_?! Can you even hear yourself?"

"Abby-"

"No, no, no, no. I find another woman's lingerie in your overnight bag and you ... you ... you behave as if this is _normal_?! Appropriate?"

He sighed and crossed the room to sit beside her on the bed. "Abby, you know-"

"What? I know what?" Her Texas twang was decidedly more pronounced as her volume increased.

"She's my partner, Abby."

" _I'm_ you partner, Marshall!"

"Babe-"

"Don't babe me!"

"Abigail." He placed a hand on her pajama-clad thigh. "I love you-"

"But?"

"What?"

"I said but. You love me, but...."

"Abby, there's nothing going on between me and Mary. She's my partner. She's my friend. Sometimes I think she's my cross to bear. But there's nothing unseemly going on, honey."

"She calls in the middle of the night and you're off for days on end. You don't call. I don't know where you are-"

"It's the j-"

"It's the job ... the job! What about the way you look at her? Is _that_ the job, Marshall?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the way you smile when you see her name on your caller ID. The way you look at her when you think no one's watching."

"Abby, I-"

"Marshall, I love you." She trailed her fingertips across his cheek. "I think I can give you the life you want. The life you deserve. With someone who loves you and supports you. We can build a family." She swiped at the tears running down her own cheeks. "But I won't spend my life surviving on what's left of your attention. I can't. I won't. My daddy didn't raise me to settle for second place."

Abby stood; Marshall reached for her hand.

"I don't know what you want, Abby."

"It's not about what I _want_. This is what I _need_ , Marshall. I need you to leave her."

"I can't."

"You won't."

"She's my best friend."

Abby sputtered a laugh. "Your best friend who leaves her panties in your luggage."

"It's not like that."

"It is. And you need to admit that and decide what you're going to do about it."

Marshall stared at his hands. It was the shrill beep of the smoke alarm that finally pierced the silence.

"I'll be by for my things later this week." 

Marshall heard the words _while you're at work_ as clearly as if she had said them aloud. 

"I'll ... I'll leave the key in the mail slot," Abby finished lamely. She turned away.

"Abby...."

She paused for only a second and continued out of the bedroom.

* * *

Marshall was out in the backyard while the shards of the tajine still smoldered in the sink. He plowed past the wrought iron patio set and continued beyond the wood-burning firebrick oven to the garden shed. The force with which he wrenched open the double doors was enough to send tools tumbling off their neatly arranged rows on the walls. Stepping over the mess, his fingers closed over a familiar handle and he proceeded across the lawn to the side yard.

The hedge was meticulously well-maintained - faithfully watered, meticulously pruned each spring. The leaves were healthy and green, the shoots hardy. And after years of painstaking care, the lilac refused to bloom. Patience and faith worn razor thin on all fronts, Marshall had reached then end of his forbearance. He adjusted his grip on the handle and raised the badminton racquet. In the cool of the gathering dusk, he pummeled the row of shrubs with short, choppy swings nearly ecstatic in their fervor.

As anger gave way to resignation, Marshall allowed the racquet to drop soundlessly to the ground. He could not coax the lilac to blossom for him with tender care. It was doubtful he could shock the stubborn hedge into flowering either. No force of will could compel her to bloom for him. He would only exhaust himself trying. Again.

* * *

"What is wrong with you, Marshall?"

He glanced to his left before merging onto I-40. "Huh?"

"C'mon doofus, I can come up with two dozen acceptable answers to that question without even trying ... can't you come up with one?" She grabbed a wet nap from the glove box to dab at a coffee stain on her blouse.

Marshall ran a hand roughly through his hair, keeping his eyes on the road. "Mary, can we- Can we just not? Just for today?"

She took off her sunglasses and angled her face to him. She studied his profile for a moment - the bulging vein along the side of his neck, the set of his jaw.

"Yeah. Okay." She turned away.

They rode along in silence. Mary wiped at the lenses of her aviators on the hem of her tank top. Marshall watched her out of the corner of his eye.

 _10 miles._ She didn't reach over to turn on the radio or paw through the bag of barbecue chips at her feet. _30 miles._ She didn't pick at her cuticles or close her eyes to catch some sleep. _50 miles._ She stared straight at the road ahead.

After over an hour of silence, he navigated the car through the familiar streets of downtown Albuquerque. Tension filled the car like smoke, making it hard for Marshall to breathe. The skin on his knuckles blanched from the force of his grip on the steering wheel.

He maneuvered the car into the garage. He shifted in the park and pulled the keys from the ignition. Mary kept her eyes straight ahead and her hands in her lap.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you."

"Forget it."

"Mare, I-"

She turned to face her partner. "No really, forget it. It doesn't matter. Just ... what's going on Marshall?" Her tone was plaintive. "Talk to me."

"I-" He hesitated before starting again. "Abby and I broke up."

"Oh, thank God! You've finally come to your sens- Wait. What happened?"

"It just didn't work out, okay?" His voice was tense.

"You want maybe I should crack some skulls, boss?" she asked her best Joisey accent.

"Nah, Mugsy."

"Seriously, what happened?"

"She found your unmentionables in my valise."

"She found my what in the what now?"

"She found your panties in my go bag." He wouldn't meet her eyes.

"So?"

"Well that's what I said, but apparently that _means_ something."

"Oh jeez. It's for the best. Little Miss Blushing Magnolia, Marshall? That's not what you need." She laid her hand on his knee.

He picked up her hand, gave it a gentle squeeze before letting go. "If you knew what I need, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

He was out of the car and had closed the door before she could issue a sound. It took a full minute before she could even close her slack jaw. She slumped back reclining her seat, trying to keep calm as her brain clicked and spun.

* * *

She leaned one hip on the counter and dumped a tray of paperclips onto the surface.

"Are we going to talk about this?"

"No." Marshall squinted at the cover page before dialing the number into the fax machine.

"What do you mean, 'no'?" She paused, half finished paper clip chain dangling from between her thumb and forefinger.

"No is the traditional negative response in the English language. In a number of languages, actually. Spanish, Italian, Ishkashmi, Khowar..." He tapped the counter lightly with his fingertips, eyes on the pages spooling through the machine.

"Marshall."

"Mary, we're not going to talk about this." He pulled the transmission report as it finished printing. When he reached out for the stapler, she pulled it away.

"Can you at least tell me why?"

He looked up at her. "Because every time we start this conversation you go running for your passport and the nearest available arrogant asshole." He snagged a paperclip off the counter and walked back to his desk.

She sucked in a breath, bit her cheeks to curb her instinct to fight back. Instead she followed him and sank down into his visitor's chair.

"Besides, I'm tired of trying to tell you something you obviously don't want to hear." He shoved the papers into a manila folder and moved to stand.

Mary placed her hand on his arm. "Marshall, I-"

"Mary, please. I'm asking you. As a friend. Your _best_ friend. Don't. Unless you feel the same, we have nothing to talk about. I can't keep doing this again."

Marshall strode to the file cabinet and pulled a drawer open and replaced the file before easing it shut again. He did not turn to face her. Instead he rested his palms atop the cabinet, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply a few times. "I'm going home. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay," she choked out.

Swift strides carried him to the elevator. She stared at his retreating form. He wouldn't turn to face her, even as the doors closed behind him.

* * *

The pattern and force of the pounding on his front door was immediately recognizable. Like a signature. Or a fingerprint.

"Please go," he called through the door.

"Your neighbors are staring. Open this door before Abigail's sorority sisters show up with sirens." The pounding began again.

The door swung open so quickly that Mary nearly tumbled over the threshold. Marshall's hands curled around her shoulders to steady her. He dropped his arms to his sides and turned toward the couch.

"What do you want, Mary?" He flopped onto the couch cushions and propped a foot on the coffee table.

"Fuck you, Marshall."

He just stared.

"You can't just ... you can't just drop something like that and walk away! Who the fuck do you think you are?"

"You want to talk? Talk."

"What do you want me to say?"

He snorted.

"Seriously, Marshall, don't I get a chance to process this?"

"Cut the bullshit. Mary, you're not stupid. And neither am I. We've been partnered for seven years. We don't lie to each other." His dropped his hands to his thighs and looked up at her again. "The fact that I love you isn't news to either of us."

Mary's mouth opened and closed again before she eventually nodded.

"And by now, you know how you feel about me."

She sat facing him on the coffee table, nudging his foot with her hip. "It isn't that simple."

"It is. You're scared."

"Pretty sure of ourselves, aren't we, Valentino?"

"Would you let me finish? You're scared. Maybe you do love me and you're scared that I'll break your heart. Maybe you don't love me and you're scared that will break mine." He sighed. "I don't think anything could hurt me more than continuing to do this dance. You and me, we don't pretend well. You're going to have to be honest with yourself in order to be honest with me." He ran the edge of his thumbnail down the back of her hand. "Go home, Mary."

Marshall heaved himself up off the couch and walked toward the hallway to his bedroom.

"You can't keep walking out on me, Marshall." Mary stayed rooted to the couch.

"Then you're going to have to give me a reason to stay." Marshall left the door partially ajar, before turning off the bedside lamp. He lay awake in the dark long after he heard the front door open and then close again.

* * *

Mary picked up her phone from the passenger seat and sighed when she glanced away from the windshield to check the caller id. She clicked to answer the call.

"I can't talk now, Squish." She rubbed her temple absently.

"So what else is new? Look, Mary, I'm just calling to remind you about Friday."

"Comes after Thursday and before Saturday. Yes, I'm familiar with it." She cut off an SUV while making a left hand turn without using her directional.

"Mary! It's New Year's Eve! You and Marshall were supposed to sit at our table at the Gala."

"Sorry, Mitzi. We can't make it."

"You promised! And it's a benefit ... for underprivileged children ... or cats. Something."

"Have moneybags cut them a big check and send my regrets."

"Oh, no. Not this time, sis. You're coming. You're wearing a dress. You're behaving yourself. And you're gonna make fun of these blowhards with me behind their backs. Please, Mary. I don't think I can do this without you."

"You, Squish, you're going to have to learn eventually. This is the life you're choosing, not me."

"I know, I know. Just this once though, okay?" Brandi sounded small.

Mary sighed. "Okay."

Brandi squealed.

"Listen. I'll be there. And do my best to behave. But I'm not sure Marshall is going to be able to make it."

"What? Why?"

"Squish-"

"Don't worry. I'll take care of it. Whatever it is."

The call ended with a click.

_Good luck._

* * *

The setting sun bruised the winter sky on Monday evening. Three fingers of tequila sloshed in the glass as Mary lowered herself none too gently onto the deck chair. How could one day feel like twenty? Same office, same boneheaded witnesses, same dumbass government agencies doing their best to undo their good work. Mary raised the glass to her lips and shivered as the booze burned its way down her throat. She raised the hood of her sweatshirt and hugged her knees in close to her chest. 

When you finally notice something, it becomes all you can see. Marshall loved her, was _in_ love with her. Finally acknowledging the truth had sharpened the focus of her memories. He had never lied to her. Every moment a message, every word, every touch, every look. He had risked his job, his reputation, his _life_ for her, for her disastrous family. _Fuck._

She dropped the glass with a clatter and commenced pacing the deck in a pair of Marshall's wool hiking socks she had integrated into her own wardrobe when they turned up in her laundry. _Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck._ She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyelids until she saw fireworks, a habit she had picked up in childhood.

 _Now what?_ Did she love him? Even if she could sack up and admit it, did it matter? Everything she touched turned to dust. If they gave it a go, she could end up hurting him or losing him. _Too late._ What was at stake that wasn't on the table already?

She threw open the sliding door and snatched her car keys off the counter on her way to the front entry.

* * *

"Arigato." Marshall balanced the take out cartons in one hand while brandishing some bills in the other.

"Whatever, man." 

The delivery kid was down the driveway by the time Marshall wrangled the door shut. He spread the cartons out on the coffee table, plopped down on the carpet, and began mixing soy and wasabi.

An awful day at work had been capped by returning to his home sweet broken home where every trace of Abigail had been systematically and methodically identified and stripped from the house. He had wandered from room to room taking inventory of the loss. Art, clothes, even her soy milk had been removed from its spot in the refrigerator door.

Somehow he had ended up in the empty dining room, running his hand along the chair rail. It struck him that after three days, he didn't miss her. He mourned the loss of the idea of her, acutely. A comfortable, amiable domestic partnership. A chance to build a family. A way to have a life outside of Mary. A chance to disentangle from her enough that his own happiness would no longer be contingent on hers. If he couldn't make it work with Abigail -- Abigail who was sweet and sexy, who understood the nature of a career in law enforcement, who accepted and embraced his quirks of personality, who loved him and wanted to start a family -- he didn't stand a chance of escaping the magnetic pull of Mary. His compass would always point to true north. He clicked off the light with a sigh and headed back into the kitchen.

Pulling a Sapporo from the fridge had somehow led to sushi delivery. He snagged a piece of tekkamaki with his chopsticks, distractedly dragging it through the soy before popping it in his mouth. Mary loved him. He knew that. But he sincerely doubted she felt anything approaching desire for him. Certainly not the way he burned for her. He took another slug of his fourth Sapporo, raising it in salute to the empty room.

"You were right, Otomo No Yakamochi. 'Better never to have you in my dream than to wake and reach for hands that are not there.'" He finished the beer and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. "Quoting 8th century Japanese poets aloud to yourself is definitely how to get her in your bed, man. Well played."

He shouldn't have said anything to her at all. Let her continue on pretending not to know. Was dancing around the truth more painful than losing her altogether? He was about to find out.

* * *

"What is this, Groundhog Day?" Marshall grumbled as he hauled himself up off the carpet and steered his stiff legs in the direction of the distinctive pounding on the front door.

"Mare?" His hair was mussed and his speech was slow. 

She ran a critical eye over the grey thermal henley and faded jeans, a pair of wool socks identical to the ones she wore, before pushing past him into the living room.

"You know what? Everyone thinks I'm the bitch and you're a boy scout. But you're every bit the asshole I am."

"Excuse me?" He rubbed at his eyes as if trying to wake up.

"Ambushes and ultimatums? That's bush league, Marshall." She stomped into the kitchen.

"What the hell are you talking about, Mary?"

"I'm talking about us!" She pulled out a stool from under the breakfast nook before shaking her head and hauling herself up onto the counter. "Seven years! It took seven years to build this delicate balance. And in one afternoon, you want to knock the whole thing down like a bratty toddler!"

"I repeat, what are you talking about, Mary?!"

"You love me!"

"Yes," he replied flatly. He didn't lift his gaze early enough to see the loaf of bread before it connected with his head. "What the fuck?"

"We don't do this!" She slid from the counter and stalked towards him. Exotic animal indeed. "You and me. We don't do this. Because I would crush you."

Marshall snorted. "You may have put on a couple of pounds, but-"

"Shut up!" Her fists connected with his chest. "Would you shut up?! I'm trying to tell you something, asshole!

"I need you. I never want to hurt you. I never want to lose you! And you fucked it up! You made me do it anyway!"

"Can I talk now?" His voice was low, almost gravelly.

She hugged her arms in tight across her abdomen. "I guess."

"I fucked it up." He stepped forward; she stepped back. "It was bound to happen." He pressed on. "What do we do now?"

When her back hit the countertop, he gripped her elbows and lifted her back onto the counter. Her eyes squeezed shut at the touch of his hand at her neck. An involuntary shiver ran through her, and Marshall read it as disgust.

"That's what I thought." He backed away.

Mary's eyes shot open. "What?"

"We're not going to do this because you think you'll lose me if you don't."

"Wait. Marshall-"

"It's okay, Mare. I'm an asshole. With my, what, 'ambushes and ultimatums'?" He leaned a hip against the refrigerator door. "I'm not going to blackmail you into my bed."

Mary's mouth dropped open. "You ARE an asshole. You think anyone can fuck me against my will?"

He shuddered at the thought.

She stomped from the kitchen in the direction of the front door. "Call me when you sober up, you dumb shit," she called over her shoulder.

* * *

"Well, clearly I'm going to be the envy of every man at the gala." Peter beamed from the bedroom door.

Brandi giggled delicately from her perch on the vanity in front of Mary. The mascara wand was poised a little too close for comfort as far as Mary was concerned. She batted Brandi's hand away before rolling her eyes in Peter's direction.

"Why? Did you find tuxedo pants big enough to accommodate your wallet?" she joked. Four days of tense civility in the office had taken their toll.

"Ha ha. They won't be able to take their eyes off my two gorgeous blonde escorts-"

Mary's eyebrows shot up.

"Uh, you know what I meant."

Brandi seized the opportunity to apply the mascara while her sister was distracted and gave a little cry of triumph. "I knew what you meant, honey. But you won't have two dates."

"Oh, hallelujah!" Mary's hands flew to the zipper at the back of the tightly fitted bodice of her red satin evening gown. "You've come to your senses! I'll be in the jacuzzi watching Locked Up Abroad on the plasma."

"Not so fast, sis. I only meant that you have your own date." The doorbell rang. "Aha! That'll be him now."

Peter looked perplexed, and Mary's look was lethal. A mist of hairspray rained down on Mary's up-do and Brandi herded them all down the curved staircase to the foyer.

"I'm not-" Mary's words tapered off as Brandi pulled the front door open to reveal a tuxedoed Marshall Mann, looking for all the world like he would bolt given a second's opportunity. Brandi pulled him by the hand through the door.

"Marshall, you look hot! I was just telling my sister how beautiful she looks. Doesn't she?"

His eyes met Mary's across the entryway. "She does."

Mary remained uncharacteristically silent.

"Tell Marshall he looks hot, Mary," Brandi directed as she smacked her sister in the belly with her evening bag.

"You look hot, Marshall," Mary parroted. "Now can we get this over with?" She stomped in the direction of the four car garage.

Peter and Marshall exchanged small talk in the car while Brandi fixed her sister with a death stare in the mirror as she pretended to adjust her makeup. Mary gazed out the window.

When they arrived Sandia Resort, Mary exited the car gracefully and smoothed the fabric of her gown over her hips. When she saw Marshall admiring her, she gave him a smile that struck fear in his heart.

He placed a hand on her arm and asked, "Can we talk about this?"

She turned to face him and placed her hand over his. "All evidence to the contrary," she replied mildly. 

When they reached the ballroom, Mary placed her wrap on her chair and dragged Brandi in the direction of the bathroom.

Peter looked at Marshall and shrugged. "You may want to get a drink."

* * *

Mary played nice through dinner, smiled through the flashbulbs as Peter was recognized as the evening's major sponsor, made small talk with Mayor Berry over dessert. When Marshall regarded her curiously, she met his confused expression with a beatific one of her own.

When she dropped her fork, Marshall made a move to retrieve it. She placed a hand on his knee to stop him before leaning down herself. She rustled the fabric of his open jacket on her way back up. When she winked at him, he began a mental count of her cocktails that evening that actually stopped at two.

When the band struck up a familiar song, Brandi kicked Peter in the shin.

"OwwWould you like to dance, Mary?" He covered poorly.

Mary shrugged. "I'll probably stomp on your foot."

"Too late," Peter muttered as he offered Mary his arm.

When they returned to the table, Marshall was engrossed in a conversation with the Mayor's wife about horticulture. Mary moved across the table to a seat next to Brandi, knocking the table with her hip as she sat. A goblet tipped, spilling water into Mrs. Berry's lap. She jumped up with a cry. Marshall's hand went to his pocket on reflex, reaching for his handkerchief. His fingers closed on an unexpected scrap of fabric, eyes widening as he retrieved a familiar scrap of black lace. Mary's eyes sparkled as she lithely crossed her legs. Marshall shoved the panties back into his pocket with a strangled gasp and lamely grabbed at the tablecloth to blot at the spill. Brandi was up in a flash and escorted the woman to the ladies room after casting a sharp look in her sister's direction.

Peter dropped his head in his hands, and Mary didn't even pretend to hide her giggles. Marshall continued to stare at her, dumbstruck.

Mary made her way around the table and rested her hand on Marshall's head. "Close your mouth."

He complied.

"Dance with me?" She trailed her fingers down his arm to tangle them with his.

Marshall nodded mutely and allowed himself to be towed to the dance floor. Mary wrapped her arms around his neck and his hands moved automatically to her waist. The fabric felt smooth under his fingers. They swayed gently for a few moments in a barely passable imitation of dancing.

Marshall knew he was breathing too fast. "What are-"

"Shhh," she whispered in his ear, fingers toying with the downy hair at the back of his neck. "We clearly suck at talking about this."

He shuddered as her warm breath reached his ear.

"Just tell me what you need." She slid his hand down to cup her buttocks, smiled as she felt the press of his arousal against her abdomen.

Marshall lowered his head to press his lips to her neck with a groan.

"Then we understand each other?" She gasped.

"We don't pretend well."

Without another word exchanged, they headed to the hotel lobby.


End file.
